The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (15 page)

12 Years Ago

As they approached the nineteenth century, Charles Bingley found himself at ease. His first year at Cambridge had gone quite well in every respect, and his father was pleased. As a sort of reward, he was given no obligations beyond attending his sister's marriage to Mr. Hurst in early June, and then he was free to travel about a bit.

He was overjoyed, of course, when the newly graduated
Darcy invited him to Pemberley. The shooting season had not quite begun, but there was plenty of wildlife in Derbyshire year-round, or so Bingley had heard. His father was also interested that his son had developed a friendship with the famous Darcys of Pemberley; such a social connection could only bring about good things. Bingley himself had not that intention when he traveled up north. He simply wanted to see his friend and get away from his sisters.

Darcy was less a man of leisure, as his father was continuing his education in how to be Master of Pemberley, and Darcy was to leave for a year on the Continent in the late summer, giving them only a month together. Several hours of the day, sadly, Darcy was caught up with his father, an amiable but serious gentleman. The Darcy fortune seemed to be incredibly complicated and hard to master. With so much of it coming from different marriages and stocks in overseas companies, almost the whole of Pemberley was caught up in entail, but there also was the land in Derbyshire that they rented to the peasantry and the income that brought.

Darcy remarked that he had utterly failed, until that point, to estimate his own worth, but he had decided to say it was ten thousand pounds a year, because that was “a nice, round number” and probably not terribly far from the truth. He would stick with that number for years to come, while Bingley, with a tradesman's blood, knew that Darcy was worth far more.

Clearly, becoming the head of such an estate was looming for the young Darcy, and he treasured his free time. They spent many an hour outside, to the point that the cook said she was positively out of different ways to season bird and they ought to shoot something else. Georgiana, barely in her eighth year, ran about,
tried to join them, and occasionally invited “Mr. Bingley” to tea parties. Darcy informed him that if he responded positively, he would have to sit on furniture that was too small. Clearly he himself had done it many times. Bingley did say no, but he gave Georgiana enough rides on his back to make up for it.

One morning when Darcy had no standing obligations, they were setting out for a particular creek so Darcy could teach Bingley to fish. Before they could depart, Mrs. Reynolds appeared at the top of the stairs. “Master Fitzwilliam.”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Darcy requests your presence in the study immediately.”

That hadn't happened before during Bingley's stay. In fact, the look on Darcy's face made it obvious that the severity in her voice was alarming to him. “Bingley, you may wish to go without me.”

“But I can't—Oh, forget it.” Darcy was already gone in the direction of the study. Bingley managed to avoid the temptation to follow him there and listen through the too-thin door for five whole minutes consumed with furious pacing. After that, he gave in to his instincts, but only because he was busy shooing Georgiana away.

The Darcys—father and son—had voices that could, to some extent, be considered raised, as Darcy retorted, “How could you even accuse me of this? I am insulted just at the implication!”

“What you do in your spare time—”

“I have never,
ever
used my spare time at Pemberley in such a way, and you know it! Have I ever given you reason to think otherwise?”

“I've heard stories about your behavior in college,” his father said coldly.

Darcy was quick to answer, “And who told you those stories? Wickham?”

“Whatever you like to be called yourself, you will show him respect and use his proper Christian name!”

“Fine!
George.
He is the person who should be in question here, not me. This is hardly the first time this has happened, and every time, he has been responsible! How many maids have you had to dismiss since he became a man?”

“You will not speak gossip about George in my house!”

“It is not gossip! It is fact! I just cannot see…” There was a pause, and Darcy's voice upon return was considerably calmed and almost upset in a different way. “I cannot see why a man of your wit and intelligence will continuously turn a blind eye to it. To even go as far as to accuse your own son over him!”

“You will not sit in judgment of me!”

He was right, at least on that account. However annoyed (or correct, from the sound of it) Darcy was, he could not call out his father. It was a biblical sin.

After some time, Darcy's voice changed again. “I… am sorry, Father. I reacted strongly to your accusation, and I had no place to do so in front of you. But I stand behind my opinion that George is the father.”

“Mr. Wickham—”

“With all due respect, Father, Mr. Wickham was a saint of a man, but he died long ago and his own countenance seems to have little bearing on his son's.” He added more desperately, “Why do you not see it? How much evidence must be before your eyes before you open them?”

“Would you like me to use these same harsh eyes to look at you?”

“I've—done nothing wrong! Please, Father!”

There was silence on both ends. Eventually, Mr. Darcy replied gruffly, “Excuse my accusation. Of course, you would have more propriety than that. It must have been one of the other servants. You may go.”

This time, Darcy did not contradict him. He stormed out, looking not halfway surprised that Bingley was there.

Their trip to the lake was a strange one, not to be repeated in the same fashion. This time, Darcy took liberties with the bottle of wine that was in one of the baskets, and Bingley learned more about Wickham and less about fishing that afternoon as Darcy ranted on. Bingley and Wickham had only missed each other by a few weeks, it seemed, as Wickham had been in residence at Pemberley when Darcy returned from Cambridge. However, Wickham decided he had had enough of Darcy's “stuck-up attitude” and left. Not, apparently, before impregnating another servant girl.

“And my father!” Darcy said. “I do not—I don't—we don't often misunderstand each other. Please do not let me give you that impression,” Darcy said through slurred speech. “I just do not understand it. I do not understand it. He treats Wickham like his own son! He has given him a home, an education, a living—all of which he has wasted away! There wouldn't be an innocent woman working at Pemberley, if he could help it!” He shook his head and took another swig from the bottle. “I just… don't understand it.”

Bingley admitted that he did not. Over a decade later, he had a feeling that he did.

WITH THE COMBINATION OF the circumstance, the immense social pressures at work, and the various drinks continuously offered to him, Dr. Maddox knew he needed an escape. Fortunately his wife was thoroughly enjoying talking to the ladies of court, so he slipped out onto a balcony. Only the fresh air kept him from being ill altogether. A servant was there to attend him, but he shooed the fellow away with more anger than he normally would have. Caroline was happy, but that was because she had no idea of the noose that was around their necks, perhaps not even metaphorically. How could he ever tell her? If he were to tell her?

“Lovely evening, isn't it?”

He knew that voice, now from two different places. His intended escape had resulted in the opposite effect—he was trapped on a balcony with the prince himself. He bowed, another threat to his ready stomach, but managed to keep down all of the alcohol he had so foolishly ingested to calm himself. “Your Highness.”

The prince didn't return the bow. “My God, man, you look positively spooked. I seem to have that effect on people.”

“It's just—I just—I'm not accustomed to being in the presence of royalty—sir—Your Highness.”

“But you are,” corrected the prince.

“I—I wasn't going to say it,” Dr. Maddox said. He wanted to bow again, but he was fairly
sure
he would lose his stomach if he did. Instead he removed his glasses and began to clean them with a handkerchief, even though they were perfectly clean. However, the action removed the distinctness of the world and had almost the same effect of looking away, as if looking directly at the prince would burn his eyes.

“You have a good deal of discretion, Doctor.”

“Thank you.”

“You really had no idea who I was?”

“I don't—I don't inquire after my patients. Not—not at— well, I'm not going to say it. And it was dark. And I had never seen you before, so… No. I saw a gold ring and you… you overpaid me, but that just meant—you were titled or—or something. I don't know.”

“You could have asked someone there.”

“I didn't. I don't do that sort of thing.” He swallowed. “I'm just a doctor.”

“You are a very good one.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said earnestly, very earnestly. He watched the blur that was the prince walk over to the edge of the balcony, probably facing out, not facing him. “Your Highness.”

“So… the stitches. Tuesday?”

“Tuesday would be fine, yes.”

“I'll send a courier. Now, I must get back to my party. Good evening, Doctor.”

He bowed yet again. “Your Highness.”

Somewhere in France, in a tiny, unnamed inn above a tavern, the Darcys had their first peaceful rest in days. Far north and a crossing away, the Bingleys had retired from their many guests and responsibilities with children, and the twins were giving them some peace. But between them, in a townhouse in West London, while Caroline Maddox was being freed from her complex gown and jewelry, her husband was emptying his stomach into a chamber pot by the fire downstairs. It was only after some time that she noticed his absence and appeared before him, a shawl wrapped over her nightgown. “Daniel?”

“I'm fine,” he said, his voice weak. The servant had already taken the pot and covered him with a blanket. She sat next to him on the chaise and held a hand to his head.

“You are freezing! Did you catch something at the ball?”

“No. No, no, I was in trouble long before that.” He swallowed. “Forgive me. It will pass. I had too much to drink.” He put his hand over hers. “Go to bed.”

“Look at you—you're shivering and sick, and you send me away? Do balls really bother you that much?”

“No. Just—this one.”

“Are you nervous around royalty?”

“Apparently.”

She looked at him quizzically, which he pretended not to catch. “Go to bed, darling.”

“Only if you come with me. If it's drink, I won't catch it, will
I? Come.” She was willing to drag him up, and he waddled up the stairs and was helped into bed. He was so very, very happy to have her. It would be such a shame to lose her, all because of his foolishness.

“I was going to regale you with tales of whom I met, but it seems you are not in the mood,” she said. “So I will not torture you. But you will tell me why you made yourself sick.”

“I did not make myself sick.”

“You are so prodigiously careful with your own health that I can hardly believe anything else,” she said.

Damn her, for being so intelligent!

“Who did you meet?”

“Can't tell,” he mumbled into his pillow. “My patients need their privacy.”

“Are you saying your wife ranks below your patients?”

“I am serious, Caroline.”

“So you met one tonight. Who was it?”

“Oh God, please, let us not talk of this. It will only lead to bad things.”

“What? A former lover?”

“
What?
No!” He turned over to face her. “Of course not. There is no one in England that—well, you know.”

“Does this line of conversation bother you so?”

“Have I not said that? Several times, I think, at this point?”

“Fine, then! If you don't like royal balls, you never have to go to another one! I will go alone if we are invited, and you will never see any of those people again.”

He considered and then said, “On the contrary. I have an appointment with the prince on Tuesday. Or, he has appointment with me.”